


Decay

by anachronic_mai (danbrokethesoundbarrier)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Damaged Harry Potter, Dealing With Loss, Drug Abuse, Loneliness, M/M, POV First Person, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danbrokethesoundbarrier/pseuds/anachronic_mai
Summary: He gets along without him very well.Of course he does.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 32





	Decay

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader! This is my first time posting, I commend your courage for choosing to read this. I must warn you even though this is a short fic, it deals with drug use and self-destructive tendencies. The MCD mentioned in the warnings occurs outside the fic but it's there nonetheless, so if this isn't your cup of tea, please consider closing the tab. 
> 
> On a happier note, thank you [Erebeus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erebeus) so much for betaing this impulsive ramble. You've been very kind and encouraging!

“I get along without you very well  
Of course, I do  
Except when soft rains fall  
And drip from leaves, then I recall  
The thrill of being sheltered in your arms”

 _I get along without you very well_ by Chet Baker

A clock? No. Closer to a wingless Snitch I think.

Could be a clock though.

I should move—my back bloody hurts. I think if I sit up slowly, maybe I’ll forget the rampant rhythm of my heart. Any minute now, it’ll fly out of my ribcage and splash against the ceiling. It could be nice seeing that rounded water stain tainted in red. Still, I don’t want to lose this position with my legs resting comfortably up against the wall; if I sit up, I’ll have to use them.

I’m not sure they can hold me.

“Ugh… fuck.” I protectively bring my arm against my eyes. Where’s that hideous light coming from? Is it day already? I turn my head towards the windows. One of the yellowed pages from _The Prophet_ I used to cover them up has fallen. It’s pouring outside, drops are furiously drumming against the glass. Maybe the rattling has loosened the cello-tape I used to put them up. I should’ve used magic, now I need to get up. The light is burning my eyes.

I drop my arm back again at my side and take a last look at the peeling plaster of the worn out ceiling.

My legs slide slowly down the wall, and once they reach the floor, I cross them, feeling the tight stretch of the muscles. Right. “Up,” I command.

I push myself up briskly, and feel the unmistakable pain of a shard of glass stabbing my hand. I let it get deeper, opening the wound. Maybe I’ll heal it later.

I keep my hand there, stilling my body in a crouch and letting the sting flood my senses. My heart is beating impossibly faster, but I’m used to it. Any moment now, it should burst through my chest.

I can’t wait.

I cover my eyes as I reach the window. I have no idea where I left my wand or the cello-tape. Fuck me if I’m going to search for any of them. I pick up the paper from the floor, unstick a corner of the one that’s still holding on the window and place the fallen one underneath it as best as I can. There. I stare at the page, trying to make sense of the old news. Something about post-war repairings. A load of bullshit.

I kick some empty bottles around as I make my way to the coffee table. I sit on the floor next to it and grab a small vial with my bleeding hand, pouring some of its contents directly on top of a shiny golden Galleon. “Cheers,” I say to no one in particular as I lift it to my face and hit it up. I tip my head back, sniffing loudly, and stare at the Snitch some more. I swipe my itchy nose with the back of my hand. My jittery leg begs me to get up. Taking a swig of the bottle of whiskey, I grab my keys and get out of the flat.

The rain is petering out now. I put my sunglasses on as I walk down the streets of this godforsaken neighbourhood this Sunday… morning? Afternoon? If only that water stain had been a real clock.

I reach Bernie’s bar —den would be more accurate— in just five minutes. I’m lucky to have found it, otherwise I wouldn’t know where to go on my daily outings. It’s open twenty-four-seven for crackheads like me, a service to the community in all fairness.

I go in and take my regular seat at the bar, next to where I first found _him_. AC/DC is playing on the speakers, and I listen to the music as I signal Bernie to bring me my usual.

 _Hell ain’t a bad place to be,_ sings Brian Johnson. Debatable.

It’s always a bit hard coming here, I’m not gonna lie. It’s always hard confronting the memory, the only thing I’ve got now. People used to say it’d get easier with time. That it wouldn’t hurt as much. People are wrong and full of shit.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel his hand on my back, startling me from a drunken slumber. I can still see, if I close them hard enough, his black and blue checked scarf wound tight around his neck. I can remember wanting it to be me, wrapped around him, covered in his cologne. I drink the memories, drink to the memories, drink to the disappearing me that holds those memories. That’s all I’ve got left. Of him, of me—just memories.

I force myself to remember every day I come here. I remember his eager hands pulling at my sweaty hair as I pounded into him in the bathroom stall. His warm breath painting my neck, sending shivers down my back. His impossibly grey eyes, holding me in place, unmovable, making me human again. The blotch of pink on his perfect cheekbones, his porcelain skin, shattered and scarred, by me. I’ve never wanted so much to break something apart, to understand the fundamentals of this heavenly wonder, and then put it back together. Me, to be _me_ the privileged one to put it together and make it good, make it better.

I know I’ll never want again.

The cut in my hand stings as I grab the bourbon the bartender hands me. I don’t care about the pain, everything hurts just as badly. Every muscle in my body is weak from exertion at keeping me awake for days at a time. I dread sleeping. I desperately try to stay awake by any means. I can’t have the luxury of sleep, can’t surrender to his image even in my dreams, for in dreams it’ll seem real, and I’ll surely drive myself crazy with despair when I wake up and find it’s not. I can only surrender to the slumber when I’ve drank enough to guarantee there’ll be no dreams.

So I wait. I wait for my heart to finally burst from my chest, so that I can be rid of the distance between us. I wait until I can grab his delicate hand again, trace the line of his eyebrows with a trembling finger and kiss him for all of the times I couldn’t kiss him before.


End file.
